


it’s all too much for me

by OnyxSphynx



Series: six feet under [3]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Not Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018) Compliant, goddamn you idiots just t a l k, takes place like 2 months after the last one, they have issues but they also have each other so, they live in a cottage in the English countryside but don’t be fooled this isn’t sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 08:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18232685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: He reaches up, hesitating for only a second. “Can I do something?” he asks, and Hermann nods. Newt’s fingers, quick and dexterous, unclasp the chain from around his neck, lifting it away so, so carefully, and slips the ring off the chain, cradling it like it’s the most precious thing in the world.Newt tugs at his lip with his teeth for a moment, and then pulls at Hermann’s arm, tugging it down so he can reach his hand, and slips the ring onto Hermann’s finger. “I love you,” he says, like it’s a universal truth. “I love you, Hermann, and I—I want to be with you, okay?”His voice is wet near the end, and so are Hermann’s eyes. “I—” he swallows. “Newton, are you sure—?”“Absolutely,” Newt replies fiercely. “For—for years, Hermann, and I’m just as sure now as I was then, okay?”





	1. Act I

**Author's Note:**

> oof guess who’s back with another instalment...  
> it’s complete so chapters 2 and 3 will be up tomorrow and the day after

The cottage is small, secluded; around it, rolling hills disappear over the horizon, occasionally dotted by shrubs and the rare tree, a crisp breeze tugging at their branches. Newt’s head is pillowed on Hermann’s shoulder, expression solemn in sleep. The years have stolen away his carefree expression—replaced the spark of joy in his eyes with one of fear and apprehension, and it makes Hermann ache.

The sun is low, casting a golden-bronze sheen over everything. Newt is light—frighteningly so, Hermann realizes; hopefully, retirement will allow Hermann to care for him, be there for him the way that he should’ve in the years before their reunion. Unthinkingly, his hand creeps to Newt’s, laying on his leg, half-clenched, uncurls the fingers; twines them together with his own.

Marshal Hansen had been less than pleased upon receiving Hermann’s resignation, but Hermann isn’t about to budge; what he told Newt is true: his life’s work was rendered functionally obsolete years ago, and the only reason the PPDC kept him around was because it was good for PR.

He reaches to tug at the chain around his neck, fingers closing around air, and remembers that it no longer rests there as it has for years; instead, the simple band is at its rightful place on his ring finger; one of Newt’s first actions after they found the cottage.

_The light of the computer is bright against the darkness of his quarters, dimly-lit through the curtains by the rising sun; by his side, Newt is asleep, tucked under the covers, hair tousled. Hermann’s lips twitch up into a soft smile before returning to the screen._

_Newt shifts, eyes fluttering open; for a second, confusion and panic flash across his face, and Hermann bites his lip before he says, quietly, “Newton—Newton, you’re okay. It’s just you and I, darling, alright?”_

_The expression slowly fades away, and the other untenses, dragging in a breath. “...thanks,” he murmurs. “Sorry, I—”_

_“Don’t apologize, Newton,” Hermann says firmly. “It’s hardly something you have control over—I would never blame you.”_

_“Yeah, I—yeah, I know,” Newt says, swallows. “I just—I keep thinking thinking I’m gonna wake up one day and this’ll all—all be gone. I—” he ducks his head. “Sorry, sorry, it’s silly, I’m just being stupid again, stupid_ stupid Newt _—”_

_“Newton, don’t_ say _that,” Hermann cuts him off, voice cracking with emotion; his eyes are stinging, and he drags a hand over them roughly. “Please, Newton, don’t say such things.”_

_Newton falls silent, but it’s not like before; Hermann_ knows _he wants to say something, but for some reason, he’s—he’s_ not _. “Newton, darling,” he tries, voice softer, “what is it? Please tell me?”_

_There’s a sniffle, and Newt finally meets his eyes. “I don’t—I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, quietly. “All of this—it seems too good to be true, and I—I feel like it’s..._ unfair _to you.” There’s a lump in Hermann’s throat, and he swallows._

_“Newton, I promise, you’re not forcing me into anything I do not want,” he says thickly, “alright? I love you, Newton—you’re not being_ unfair _to me, liebling, I promise.” After a second, Newt nods, almost imperceptibly, and shifts closer to Hermann, tentatively placing his arm across Hermann’s torso._

_When Hermann doesn’t move it away, he sighs, rests his head on the other’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he murmurs, and Hermann knows he doesn’t need an answer, content to lay and listen to his even breaths, the steady beat of his heart._

_“What do you think about this one?” he asks, instead, tipping his head to the screen._

_Newt squints at it for a moment—how reassuring it is, Hermann thinks, to know that, of all the things that the Precursors took from him, his glasses were not one of them—and hums. “Looks nice,” he comments, “has it got a garden, Herms?”_

_Hermann smiles fondly, unconsciously tugging at the chain around his neck. “Yes, Newton, it does have a garden,” he replies. “You can finally fulfil your dreams of being a dirt-splattered gardener.”_

_“I’m gonna grow all the vegetables and cook you gourmet meals,” Newt declares, “feed you up a bit, Herms, dude, you’re like, rail-thin.” But there’s a smile on his lips as well, and the fear and panic from earlier, the pain that makes Hermann’s heart clench painfully, has evaporated like dew in the morning sun._

_He reaches up, hesitating for only a second. “Can I do something?” he asks, and Hermann nods. Newt’s fingers, quick and dexterous, unclasp the chain from around his neck, lifting it away so, so carefully, and slips the ring off the chain, cradling it like it’s the most precious thing in the world._

_Newt tugs at his lip with his teeth for a moment, and then pulls at Hermann’s arm, tugging it down so he can reach his hand, and slips the ring onto Hermann’s finger. “I love you,” he says, like it’s a universal truth. “I love you, Hermann, and I—I want to be with you, okay?”_

_His voice is wet near the end, and so are Hermann’s eyes. “I—” he swallows. “Newton, are you sure—?”_

_“Absolutely,” Newt replies fiercely. “For—for years, Hermann, and I’m just as sure now as I was then, okay?”_

_Hermann nods, sure that if he speaks his voice will shake so much as to be unintelligible. Newt smiles at him. “It’s gonna be great, dude,” he promises. “We’re gonna go live in a cottage in the countryside,_ together _.”_

He watches the other for a bit longer, admires the freckles dotting the bridge of his nose, before he rises, careful to not stir the other, reaching for his cane. There are still things to be done—boxes to unpack, food to prepare; he’s already indulged more than he should have.

Their belongings are in large packing boxes, stacked against the wall. There’s only four of them—Hermann has always been minimalistic bordering on spartan with his personal belongings, and Newt...well, Newt couldn’t look at most of the items in his apartment without spiraling into the beginnings of an anxiety attack.

He opens the first box, slicing through the tape with the house-key; it’s clothing, mostly, and a few knicknacks—Newt’s kaiju action-figures, Hermann’s stress ball. It’s packed neatly, thankfully, but there’s a decent amount of stuff, so Hermann pulls up a chair and settles into it, hooks the cane over the back of the chair, ready to sort the items into piles.

Eventually, it becomes almost automatic—pull an item out, give it a quick once-over, and place it in the appropriate pile. Then, three-quarters of the way through the box, he freezes.

Because there, looking slightly dusty, but none-too-worse for the years, is a grey parka, folded with care. Hermann reaches for it with trembling hands, pulls it from the box, and sits there, clinging to it.

That’s how Newt finds him, some time later; sat on a chair in the middle of the still-bare cottage, clinging to a decades-old parka, tear-tracks on his cheeks. “...Hermann?” he asks, quietly, hovering at a distance, gnawing on his lip uncertain. “Hermann, are you...are you okay?”

Hermann can’t reply but to sniffle, trying to even his breathing, and draws the parka tighter against his chest, eyes fluttering shut as he draws in a steadying breath. “You—you kept it,” he says, weakly. “All these years—”

There’s the sound of a sharp intake, and Newt’s footsteps, cautious, draw closer, until he’s near enough that Hermann can feel his presence. “Yeah,” he says, half-choked, “yeah, I—I did. Of course I did—you gave it to me.”

The words make tears stream anew down his cheeks. It seems— _silly_ , but Hermann gifted the parka to the biologist, who had, after the Drift, expressed an immense fondness for the article of clothing. “How?” he croaks.

There’s a silence. “They—they didn’t care about it,” Newt confesses. “I—I think they forgot about it, actually, or couldn’t be bothered to get rid of it. I put it in a nice box and hid it at the back of the closet and they...they didn’t care, I don’t think, not enough to toss it out.”

“Oh,” Hermann says, quietly. “I thought—I thought you had tossed it out. Gotten rid of—of any reminder of me, for years, and—” He’s cut off by his own sobs, overcome suddenly, and he clutches the parka closer, closer.

There’s a silent second, and then a hand on his shoulder, and Newt’s moving closer, close enough that Hermann can feel the heat of his skin, and wraps him in a warm embrace. “Hermann,” he murmurs, “Hermann, hey, hey, hey. It’s okay, yeah? It’s okay, just...just let it all out, Herms.”

Eventually, Hermann’s breaths even out, tears no longer coursing down his face, and he slumps against the other, letting the embrace ground him. “Thank you,” he says, face pressed into the crook of the other’s neck, unsure what exactly he’s thanking him for—the comfort, the fact that he _kept_ the parka, however unintentionally; that he’s simply _there_ for Hermann, or all three.

“Yeah,” Newt says, softly, “yeah, dude, that’s what I’m for, yeah? To be there for you when you need it, even if I did kind of a shit job of it for years. ‘m gonna be here for you now though, okay?”

Hermann hums, eyes fluttering closed, suddenly so, so exhausted. “...yeah,” he mumbles.

Newt shifts, repositioning so that he’s kneeling by the side of the chair instead of leaning over awkwardly, and says, “Herms, how about you take a break from this and go lie down? It’s almost nine already—c’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

“What about dinner?” Hermann protests, half-heartedly, and Newt shakes his head.

“I’ll take care of it,” he says firmly, “come on, Herms, you look dead on your feet—you can take a nap and I’ll make us dinner and we can eat it in bed and...” he trails off, as if uncertain how to continue. “I mean—it doesn’t have to be _us_ ,” he backtracks, “if you wanna be alone, that’s totally cool too—”

“Lay with me?” Hermann asks, tentatively, “please? I—I can’t sleep well without you. And I—I miss you,” he confesses, and Newt immediately softens.

“Yeah, dude,” he replies, “yeah, okay. I’ll make dinner and we can eat it in bed and cuddle, yeah?” He helps Hermann up, passes him his cane, leads him towards the bedroom, a hand on his lower back, steadying him, and pulls back the duvet on the bed. Hermann sits on the edge, feeling suddenly small and frail.

“Herms, you gotta lay down,” Newt reminds, fussing with the duvet cover, and places a hand on Hermann’s chest, pushing him back gently. Hermann complies, eyes heavy, and sets his head on the pillows. “Rest,” Newt orders, but his expression is soft, and he tucks the covers up to Hermann’s chin just the way he likes, brushes a stray piece of hair from his forehead.

Hermann sighs, barely conscious, and Newt leans over, pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead. “I love you,” he murmurs, half-slurring the words, and drifts off to sleep before he can hear Newt’s reply.

 

* * *

 

Newt watches Hermann for a moment, cataloguing the soft rise and fall of the covers as he breathes, the way his expression smoothes out in sleep, the pain and aching and stress all erased, making him look...content. It’s beautiful.

A shock of doubt hits him—what if Hermann’s throwing away his retirement on Newt? He could be doing so much better than—than _this_ , staying with a broken man, he _deserves_ more than Newt; how he can still stand to be _near_ him is a mystery to Newt. He tried to _kill_ the man, for fuck’s sake, and Hermann still _shares a bed with him_ , lets him see him at his most vulnerable.

_Trusts_ him.

He chews on his lip, wonders, _Is it Hermann? Is it latent ghost-Drift effects_. It hurts, the thought that Hermann’s only here with him because his mind was messed up over a decade ago in a three-way Drift with Newt and an alien hivemind, so he shoves it to the back of his mind and focuses on the task at hand: dinner.

A quick jaunt into the kitchen to look through the refrigerator reveals what Newt suspected; there’s a few sad-looking carrots, a block of cheese, and not much else, and the cupboards are bare.

Anxiety creeps into his mind like weeds growing up through cracks in the pavement. He can—he _can_ do it, he repeats, breaths in shakily for counts of three. It’s just a twenty-minute drive; he can handle that, he’s—he’s _functional_ , goddamnit, he can handle going into town to buy groceries.

He can _do_ this, no matter what the sense of the world _pressing_ against him claustrophobically says. He hunts around for something to write on, scrawls a quick note in case Hermann wakes up before he gets back, and grabs the car-keys from where they’re hung on the coat-hook by the door.

The air is crisp, a bite of winter to it, but Newt can’t bring himself to care that it chills his skin, numbs his fingers. The countryside zips by in a blur, Newt’s eyes fixed on the road, hands gripping the steering-wheel tightly.

It feels both like hours and mere seconds before the car’s turning onto the main road, the street-lamps casting pale, oil-like light on the dark buildings. Most are closed—it is nine at night, after all, and it’s a small town—but Newt eventually spots a grocery store that’s still open, and pulls into the parking-lot.

The bell jingles loudly in the almost-empty store, and Newt swallows, trying to tamp down his nerves. _This is easy_ , he thinks, _you know what you want, there’s no one around to talk to, you can just grab the things and leave._ Easy.

He wanders around a bit, trying to figure out where everything is, but he does finally find everything; the noodles are easy, as are the carrots, onions, and garlic, but he almost gives up on finding plain yogurt, though he does eventually locate that as well.

On the way to the checkout, he passes by a display case of doughnuts, and thinks, screw it, and buys a maple bar for Hermann and a bright green, rainbow-sprinkle-covered jelly doughnut for himself.

“Nice weather, isn’t it?” the cashier asks, and Newt hums noncommittally, pulls out his card from the scanner. “Hey, do I recognize you?” Newt freezes. “That, uh, kaiju dude, right?” the cashier continues, snapping his fingers, “yeah that’s it—”

“Um—n—no,” Newt stutters, “you—you must be confusing me with someone else.”

“No, no, I’m sure of it,” the cashier insists, and Newt panics, grabs the bag and bolts, shoving the bag into the passenger seat, and slams the door behind him, burying his face in his hands, heart jack-rabbiting in his chest.

How did he ever think he could do this? He’s a wreck—he can’t even deal with _one person_.

_Useless_ , sneers the tiny voice in the back of his mind. _Failure_.

He doesn’t even realise how hard he’s biting the inside of his cheek until he tastes the coppery tang of blood. Shakily, he draws in a breath, presses back against the seat and digs the heel of his hands into his eyes. _Get is together_ , his mind snarls, _you can’t be like this—you can’t do this to Hermann. He deserves better than_ this _. Than_ you _._

He swallows, teeth grit, and starts the car engine. The night sky expands out above the horizon, infinitely, and he muses, darkly, that it’s a good metaphor for him—too dark, too _much_. Hah.

Hermann’s still asleep when he gets back, so Newt sets a pot of water on to boil and begins preparing the sauce for the goulash in a saucepan, lets the repetitive motion drag him under, momentarily frees his mind from the creeping thoughts, the anxiety, the panic.

Soon, the barren house is filled with the tantalizing scent of spices, and Newt serves them each a bowl-full before grabbing one in each hand and returning to the bedroom to set them on the bedside table and returns back to the kitchen to grab utensils before flicking off the lights behind him.

He fights the instinctive fear as the darkness engulfs him—it’s ridiculous, he knows, something he’d thought he’d gotten over years ago, but with—with—with _them_ , darkness became a fear again; darkness meant that they shoved him deep, deep within his mind, blocked him out completely, and he never knew what he’d done during the period of darkness.

Newt stretches out an arm, presses his palm against the wall, and reminds himself that he’s _here_. Still, he trails his fingers against the slightly-bumpy wall all the way to the bedroom, clicks on the bedside lamp.

Hermann’s curled on his side, eyes flicking rapidly beneath closed eyelids, and Newt hesitates before reaching out to shake him. “Hermann,” he calls, softly, “Herms, c’mon, wake up. You gotta eat.”

The other shifts under his touch and lets out an unintelligible murmur. “ _Hermann_ ,” he repeats, a bit louder, “dude, you _have_ to eat, okay, you haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

“...Newton?” the other questions, voice rough from sleep, then, “oh. I—would you mind helping me up?”

“Of course,” Newt replies, moving closer, and pulls back the duvet pinning Hermann down, and helps him shift into a sitting position, stacking pillows up behind him so he doesn’t have to rest against the hard wall. “Here,” he says, passing one of the bowls to Hermann, along with a fork.

“Thank you,” Hermann murmurs. “Join me?”

“Yeah,” Newt says, immediately, but the way that Hermann says it, like a statement based on a solid foundation of fact—a foundation that says _I trust you_ —is...frightening, like it’s too good to be true, slipping through his fingers like smoke and dissipating.

So he clings to it, knowing it’ll soon be gone— _of course it’ll be gone_ , that’s what he’s realised, and as much as it hurts, it’s the only logical conclusion—, because he doesn’t deserve it, slips into bed with Hermann, and cuddles with him while they eat dinner, and then doughnuts, at ten-thirty at night.


	2. Act II

They’ve gotten everything unpacked within a week, and the cottage is finally starting to feel like _home_. Newt’s cooking is superb, and Hermann is more than happy to take the trip into town to fetch him whatever he might need.

It’s the middle of the day, the sun beating down hotly despite it being later into autumn, and Hermann’s reclining in a chair on the patio, filling out a sudoku puzzle-book and occasionally raising his head to check on Newton, eyes shaded from the glare of the sunlight by a wide-brimmed sun hat.

Currently, he’s putting together plant-boxes for the spring, eager to have a proper garden. Hermann suspects that it will either be obsessively maintained or left to run wild, because that’s simply the other’s nature.

“ _Ow!_ ” Newt hisses, and glances up to find the biologist glaring angrily at a plank of wood, thumb between his teeth, before he pulls it out and flaps his hand in the air. “Ow,” he says, again, “fucking _splinters_ , dude.”

“You should’ve sanded it like I suggested,” Hermann replies, and Newt—

—goes silent.

“Yeah,” he says, voice pitched oddly, “you’re—you’re right. I should’ve.” After that, he doesn’t say— _anything_ , and Hermann feels strangely ill-at-ease without his commentary. He tries to focus on his sudoku, convince himself that Newt is just _busy_ , but there’s— _nothing_ . Newt will usually hum under his breath, murmur the lyrics to whatever earworm is currently stuck in his head or simply talk aloud to himself, but he’s _silent_.

Hermann tries to push it to the back of his mind; Newt’s probably just very focused on what he’s doing, that’s all.

They eat a lunch of sandwiches, and he watches as Newt picks at his own, pulling off increasingly smaller pieces; by the time he’s finished three, Newt is still only halfway through his first one, staring at it listlessly. “Newton,” he says, reaching out to place a hand on the other’s arm, “Newton, you have to eat something, darling, you’re just skin and bones.”

Newt shakes his head, swallowing. “‘s fine, I’m just not really hungry,” he replies.

Hermann frowns. “Alright,” he says, grudgingly, “but please, at least eat the rest of that one, alright.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Newt sighs. “Okay,” he says, and Hermann gives him a  relieved smile.

Once they finish, Hermann rises from his seat. “I’m going in to town to get some more milk,” he says, “is there anything you want?”

Newt shakes his head. “No,” he says, quietly. Hermann nods, pressing a hand to Newt’s shoulder. The other leans away, ducking down, and exclaims, “Oh—I dropped my napkin.”

Hermann tries not to feel hurt; Newt _did_ drop his napkin, after all, but he can’t help but feel like the other is avoiding him. “I’ll see you in a bit, darling,” he says reluctantly, moving his hand to the head of his cane.

The car ride gives him time to ruminate; obviously, Newt’s no longer as tactile as he once was—he’s been avoiding Hermann’s touch, ducking to pick things up when Hermann leans in to press a kiss to his cheek. Hermann gnaws on his lip. What if he’s making the other uncomfortable? Surely, Newton would tell him—or would he? Pre-Drift Newt would, but perhaps Newt is no longer like that; perhaps the trauma he’s endured has changed that, as well.

_What if he’s simply tolerating it because he doesn’t feel comfortable asking you to stop?_ nags the voice at the back of his mind. _What if you’re forcing him into something he doesn’t want?_

Oh.

“Oh,” he murmurs aloud, the soft exhale of a word somehow as momentous as a wrecking ball. “Of course.”

The grocer's is full, relatively speaking, the chatter of a few dozen people in the air, but it all fades into a white noise, and Hermann mechanically makes his way to the dairy produce aisle. The weight of the milk jug is heavy in his hand, weighing down his steps back to the car.

When he gets back, Newt is back out in the garden, working on putting together the plant boxes, and Hermann resists the urge to brush past him, pat his cheek and press a kiss to his forehead even as it makes something in him crack.

“I’m going to bake something,” he says instead, “is there anything you’d prefer?”

“No—no, whatever’s good,” Newt replies, not meeting his gaze.

“Oh,” Hermann says softly, “a—alright then.” His voice cracks embarrassingly, and he turns before he can see Newt’s reaction, fleeing into the kitchen. He sets the jug of milk down on the counter-top, leans against the counter, the support of his cane not enough, and pushes back the tears that threaten to leak down his cheeks, dragging in a rattling breath.

“Get yourself together, Gottlieb,” he hisses at himself. “You’re fine. You’re _fine_.”

The words taste of lies and sorrow, and his lip trembles. _Weak_ , bites the voice in his head, _you said you wanted to help him, be there for him, but you didn’t even bother to consider what he_ wants _._

He doesn’t even realise that he’s slid to the floor until he feels the cold tile against his palm. With a shake of his head, he tries to banish the thoughts, but they buzz in his head like locust. _You’re too much,_ they jeer _, of course he doesn’t want_ you _; he just hasn’t recognized it yet._

“No,” he mutters, “no, no, no, _stop_ , please.”

His nails are biting into his skin, and he tries to ground himself with the pain; by the time he’s calmed, blood’s dried beneath his fingernails, crusted around crescent-like indentations. He stares at them duly, drags himself to his feet and fumbles with the knob on the sink, lets the icy water wash away the rusty red.

The motions come easy to him, measuring the flour and sugar and butter, works it into a dough. His hands are shaking, but he ignores it, forms the dough into balls, rolls them in cinnamon. The oven beeps, letting him know it’s up to temperature, and he mechanically puts the tray in the oven and sets the timer.

Exhaustion crashes on him, suddenly, like a tidal wave; he’s just...so _hollow_ , and the thought that there’s still over a third of the day left is daunting. Newt’s still in the garden, and, as much as Hermann wants to ask if the other minds coming inside and allowing Hermann to take a nap, head rested in his lap, he stops himself.

_He’s busy_ , he reminds himself, _and I doubt he truly wants to waste time on your whims._

He—he wants _Newt_ , and that is incompatible with what Newt wants. Hermann swallows. The longing is like an anchor, weighing him down, and, unable to stand it, he retreats to the bedroom, strips out of his own shirt and snatches one of the biologist’s—admittedly few—hoodies out of the closet, pulling it on.

The fabric is worn soft, and it has the lingering scent of Newt’s shampoo in the hood; a bit large for him, since Newt has always preferred to buy extra-large hoodies, but the garment is comforting, and he clings to it tightly.

_What if he leaves?_ he wonders, and then scolds himself for the thought. If Newt wishes to leave, Hermann will respect the decision, as much as it may break his heart.

He tugs the sleeves down so they cover his palms, and drags in a deep breath, clutching the head of his cane tightly. One step at a time.

The timer beeps suddenly, shattering the silence, and there’s a call of, “Hermann? Is that yours?” from the living room.

Hermann swallows. “Just a moment!” he calls back, hurriedly pulling off the hoodie, shoving it into one of the dresser drawers and struggling to get his own shirt back on. “I’ll—I’ll get it in a second!” Damn it, why is he so _slow?_

His fingers are shaking as he shoves the buttons into the buttonholes, and he desperately hopes that Newt doesn’t come into the bedroom. The last thing he needs is for the other to see how _pathetic_ he is.

Thankfully, Newt doesn’t, and Hermann buttons the last button and makes his way out. The scent of cinnamon hangs in the air, and Newt shoots him a questioning look. “Cinnamon rolls?” he asks, and Hermann shakes his head.

“Snickerdoodles,” he replies, pulling the tray out, hot even through the oven mits, “you, ah, once mentioned they were your favourite.”

Newt looks at him strangely. “Yeah—eight years ago.”

“O—oh,” Hermann stammers. “Well, I can—I can always make something else,” he says desperately. Is it odd that he remembers such a fact? It must be—what sort of person remembers an off-hand comment made almost a decade ago? Newt is probably slightly disturbed by it—and he probably doesn’t even _like_ snickerdoodles anymore.

“No, it’s—it’s fine,” Newt placates, but his expression is strange, and it makes Hermann’s stomach knot up, and he grips the head of his cane tightly.

“I see,” he says tightly. “Well, I’ll—I’ll put them away.” Newt looks about to say something, but, for once, he remains silent. Hermann unsticks the cookies from the pan, placing them in a large box, and sets it on top of the fridge. “If—if you want one, you know where they are.”

“Hermann—”

Hermann holds up a hand. “Don’t say anything,” he says, hollowly, “please, just—don’t say anything.”

Newt frowns at him, moving closer. “Hermann, is there anything—?”

“Just—leave me alone, please,” Hermann cuts off, hoping that his voice isn’t shaking. “I—just don’t follow me, please.” He strides past Newt, careful not to touch him, and pulls the door open, slipping on his shoes and making his way out to the car.

He’s got no destination in mind, simply driving where the road leads, and within minutes, the cottage is out of view, the rolling hills blurring into a smear of green. The sun’s lower, now, starting its descent, and the moon is already out. He turns down a dirt road, the car jumping slightly as it makes its way over the uneven ground.

Finally, he stops. His fingers are white-knuckled on the steering-wheel, and his breathing is laboured. He lets out a shaky exhale and rubs his eyes. Damn it, why can’t he get a grip? Why can’t he just enjoy what he has now instead of worrying over the inevitable end to this—well, not _bliss_ , exactly, but at the very least, _domesticity_.

Against his will, he crumples back against the seat, strength fleeing from his limbs. He’s just so—so exhausted, damn it; he’s only just got Newt back, and now he’s faced with the possibility of losing the other again, and—how is he supposed to cope with that? What is he meant to say, to feel? He’s always prided himself on his logical, analytical approach to the world, but now those things are useless.

Hermann lets exhaustion drag him down, down, into dark nothingness.

When he awakens, the sun’s set, and there’s a buzzing sound; his phone, he realizes, and fumbles to pull it out of his pocket. The sound cuts off, and when he finally managed to get it out, the screen shows one missed call from Newton.

He bites his lip; Newt must be worried—he’s been gone at least an hour, and guilt crashes down on him. Just because he feels pathetic and can’t deal with the situation at hand doesn’t mean that he has a right to ignore Newt, leave him to wonder what’s happened, but he has, and that’s cruel of him.

He hesitates for the barest second before hitting _call back_ , listens apprehensively as the phone rings.

Once, twice.

Thrice.

_“Hi, you’ve reached Doctor Newton Geiszler. I’m currently unable to reply, so, uh, leave a message with your number and—_ shit _, Hermann, don’t throw that at me—”_ The voicemail ends, and there’s a beep. Hermann clears his throat.

“Newton,” he says, hoarsely, unsure of his own voice. “I, ah, I was just calling to let you know that I’m—fine. I apologize for not calling you earlier to inform you that I would be out late...I’ll—” he swallows. “I’ll be back shortly.”

 

* * *

 

Newt stares at the phone in his hand blankly. The screen still remains the same—no missed calls, no text messages. Really, he’s not sure what he was expecting—Hermann’s probably busy with...with _something_ else.

He rubs his fingers along the side of the phone case, nervous energy with nowhere to go. The taste of sugar and cinnamon has soured in his mouth—and how did Hermann remember that? It was an offhand comment he’d made after a three-day stretch in the lab, frantically working before the next kaiju attack, and Hermann—remembered?

And all Newt managed to do, instead of thanking him, is make him run off—

_Oh_ , he thinks miserably, _why is it that I always manage to fuck things up?_ The letters, the Drift, _Alice_ , and now, he’s gone and driven Hermann away yet again—and maybe, this time, Hermann will finally realise how fundamentally _fucked up_ Newt is, like everyone else did, eventually, and leave.

It would be better for him, anyway.

Newt closes his eyes and sighs. Who knows when Hermann will be back—he might as well sleep some, since it’s getting late. The bed feels empty without the lanky physicist, but there’s nothing Newt can do about that.

It hits him, then, the full extent of— _this_ . If before, he ached for Hermann, now his heart is an open, bleeding wound. He laughs bitterly at the metaphor. _Shoulda been a poet—at least then I wouldn’t’ve tried to kill Hermann._

The memory of his fingers pressing against Hermann’s throat, the other gasping and clawing weakly at the vice-like grip rise up, and he freezes. “No,” he mutters frantically, rubs his fingers against the legs of his jeans in an attempt to be rid of the sensation of something vile crawling on them.

He catches sight of the tattoos on his arms, and recoils. “No, no, no _no!_ ” he cries, scrapping at his arms. “Get off of me, get _off!_ ”

There are tears in his eyes, blurring his surroundings, and he squeezes them tightly, shaking his head from side to side, whimpers and incoherent words tumbling from his lips as he shakes.

His nails dig into his skin, dragging along to form white-hot lines of pain, but he can’t—he _can’t_ —

The ring of his phone pierces through his panicked haze, and his eyes snap open, electric blue swimming in the air in front of him as he scrambles to grab the phone, but it’s too late.

He falls back onto the bed limply, breath shuddering.

The darkness threatens to drag him under, but there’s still blue strands woven into the very fabric of reality, all interconnected, and they threaten to pull, pull, _pull_ , unhinge everything—

_Hermann_ , he thinks desperately, fear creeping up his spine at the thought of enduring this without him, without Hermann to turn to when he wakes with a scream on his lips, memories of forced Drifts with Alice, or gasps awake with the bright, frightening blue of the Anteverse permeating his senses.

He’s falling apart—he knows this, knows it in the very marrow of his bones, that he cannot survive separated from Hermann, from his Drift parter, from the only person who understands him.

_Is this what I’ve become?_ he wonders bitterly. _Unable to function at the mere idea of losing Hermann?_

It’s selfish, horridly so, but Newt has never claimed to have aspirations of altruism.

The darkness presses in further, dragging him closer and closer to the frightening cacophony that is _sleep_ and _memories_ mixed into one, and he desperately thinks, _Hermann, I need you._


	3. Act III

The windows are dark when Hermann gets back, the black pressing against his senses. He gnaws on his lip; what if Newt doesn’t want to see him? After all, he was quite short with the man—Hermann wouldn’t blame him if he doesn’t want him around at the moment.

The instant he passes the threshold, however, something in him screams _wrong_ , sets off warning klaxons in his head. There’s a faint, quiet rasping sound, and, apprehension rising, Hermann follows it.

Newt’s curled on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, body shuddering as he draws in rasping breaths, murmuring rapidly under his breath, tone fearful. His eyes are closed, but beneath his eyelids, his eyes flicker frantically, and sweat beads his brow.

“Newton?” Hermann says, shocked, rushes to his side. “Newton— _Newt!_ ” he exclaims, but the other is unresponsive.

It reminds him an awful lot of finding Newt seizing on the floor in their lab, all those years ago, blood trickling from his nose, strapped into a pons set made of salvaged parts, jerking against Hermann as he grips him tightly. “Newton, _please_ ,” he begs, “Newt, please, wake up—wake _up!_ ”

The other’s speaking frantically now, words slurred together, and he suddenly grasps Hermann’s arms, bruisingly tight even through all the layers of clothing. “Please,” Hermann pleads, voice breaking, “please, Newton, _please._ ”

He doesn’t waken, but the shaking begins to abate, words slowing until they stop, and he finally falls against Hermann, tear-wet face against his chest. Hermann breathes a sigh of relief and lowers the other down. His expression is still one of pain, though, and that makes Hermann swallow tightly.

With a hesitant hand, he reaches out to brush the sweat-slicked hair away from Newt’s clammy forehead. The other murmurs something, too quiet to be heard, still asleep, and Hermann draws back instantly, startled.

He sighs. There’s nothing to be done other than get into bed—he doesn’t want to risk disturbing the biologist, and Hermann is exhausted as well. He blindly fumbles through the dresser, pulling out a pair of sweatpants, and drags with it the hoodie from earlier.

For a moment, he freezes—what if he’s overstepping an invisible line?

_Oh, sod it_ , he thinks; he’s too tired at this point, and his leg is ready to give out under him. They can deal with this in the morning—he’s not about to wake Newt just to talk about...whatever this is. They’re both too exhausted.

With that thought, he unceremoniously strips out of his clothing and pulls on the sweatpants and hoodie, switching his cane from one hand to the other in order to get his arms into the sleeves. Finally, he’s dressed, eyes threatening to slip shut, and he pulls back the covers, crawling beneath. Newt is still curled tightly on top of the covers, and Hermann turns towards him.

He wants to reach out to the other, but he’s not sure how Newt will respond, so he doesn’t, simply opting to gaze at the other until sleep drags him under.

When he wakens, the other side of the bed is empty and cold—Newt got up and left at least half an hour ago. Hermann tries not to let the thought sting, but it _does_ ; before, they would lay in bed together for at least an hour after waking—something they haven’t done in almost a week.

Hermann bites his tongue, blinking rapidly to clear the mistiness from his eyes. He moves to pull back the covers, but his leg protests immediately, and he lets out a hiss of pain.

There’s a commotion, and a second later, Newt appears in the doorway. When he sees that it’s just Hermann’s leg acting up, his expression melts from one of concern to relief, but he’s left hovering awkwardly. “Is—is there anything I can do?” he asks tentatively.

“The—tylenol, please,” Hermann grits through clenched teeth, levering himself up to dig his fingers into the scarred flesh, trying to work out the knot to no avail. Newt nods, disappearing back into the living room.

He reappears a few minutes later, bottle of tylenol in one hand and a glass of water in the other, sets them on the bedside table. “Do you—?” he gestures to the pillows, and Hermann nods wordlessly. Newt props the pillows up, and Hermann falls back onto them, holds out a hand.

Newt unscrews the lid and hands him two tylenol. Hermann throws then back with a grimace. Newt purses his lips. “Water?”

“Yes, please.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Newt says, “Um, so, about last night—”

“It’s—forget it,” Hermann cuts it; obviously, the other is about to mention his voicemail. Newt nods, face unreadable.

“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, you’re—you’re right. I’ll just—I’d better leave, then.”

Before he can rethink it, Hermann blurts, “Wait—don’t go, please!”

Newt turns around, surprised. “But I thought—I thought you wanted me gone.”

Hermann blinks. _Oh._ “Newton, no,” he says softly. “I was—I was stressed about other things last night—I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Sure,” Newt scoffs, and Hermann frowns at him.

“Well, then, what do _you_ think it was?” he asks, and something like panic flickers through Newt’s eyes before it’s gone.

“Nothing,” he says, gaze dropping to the floor. “I—it’s nothing, Hermann.”

“It doesn’t _sound_ like nothing,” Hermann counters.

“Just _drop it!_ ” Newt exclaims. “God, Hermann, you push and push and _push_ —don’t you know when to shut the _fuck_ up and leave things _alone?_ ” His tone is ugly, harsh, and Hermann recoils.

“Newt, I—”

“ _No_ ,” the other snaps hotly, “I don’t—I don’t want to hear it, Hermann, just—shut up, shut the _fuck up_.”

Hermann falls silent, stunned, and the other seems to realise what he’s said suddenly. He looks—stricken, stumbles back a few paces. “I—” he swallows. “I have to—I have to go.”

He’s gone in seconds, the front door slamming behind him, ringing loudly in the silence. Hermann presses his lips together tightly, chokes back an ugly, wet sound.

The house is silent without him; pressing in on Hermann, and he longs for Newt to exclaim from the other side of the house, come running, eyes shining, words spilling from his lips as he strings his theories together like a master weaver, but the other’s gone—and the nagging voice in his head says _He won’t be back, he’s finally seen the truth._

Hermann swallows thickly, tears stinging his vision, and he finally lets them fall, wetting his cheeks. He presses his hand to his mouth and cries.

 

* * *

 

_“Newton, I—I don’t know what to say. You’re—you’re not picking up, and—and I—I don’t—” a sob interrupts the words, and after a moment, he continues. “Please, dar—Newt, please, call me, I just—I want to speak to you.” End recording. If you would like to—_

_A beat, then a sniffle. “Newton. You’re still not picking up. Obviously. I—oh, damn it, I can’t—” End recording. If you would like to call back, press—_

_“Newton, I’m sorry, darling, so sorry. Please, just—if not come speak to me, at least call me. I—Newton, I don’t know what...what I did, but I can—I can make it right, I swear—” he breaks off, voice cracking, says, wetly, “just—if this is the end, at least—at least tell me. I—I love you still, even if you don’t—” he cuts himself off, the sound of rustling fabric crackling through the speakers. “Sorry, I—sorry.” End recording. If you would like to call back, press one. To delete this message, press two. For more options, press—_

_“...Newton.” A pause. The words are slurring, slightly. “We should...talk.” He’s reluctant; fear, apprehension. “Newton,” he says, again, “Newt...I suspect that this was going to happen eventually, wasn’t it? I should have...known it was too good to be true.” The sound of glass on wood, then, “I just didn’t think you’d be so cowardly as to leave without cutting it off cleanly; that’s the only thing I’m bitter about. It’s...it is the end, isn’t it?” he laughs hollowly. “Ah—I do suppose it is—” End—_

 

* * *

 

Hermann stares at the phone laying on the arm of the chair. It’s dark, the room lit only by a dim lamp. The glass in his hand is cold, the ice clinking against the sides every so often with a tinkling sound.

He almost misses the soft sound of the key turning in the lock, the mechanism releasing, door swinging open quietly, until the floorboard creaks. “...oh, it’s you, then,” he says, listlessly, staring at the wall. “I thought you’d gone for good—you should’ve, you know.”

“Should’ve what?” Newt asks, tone indecipherable.

Hermann’s laugh is hollow. “Gone,” he replies, “you should’ve gone when you had the chance. Left me here and started a new life.”

Something like hurt is in Newt’s tone as he says, “You would have wanted me to?”

“No,” Hermann shakes his head, fingers clumsily trailing the rim of the glass. He sighs. “No, but I would understand if you wanted to. If you did.”

There’s a moment of silence. “Why would I want to?” Newt asks, hesitantly, and the words suddenly spill forth from Hermann’s lips, a quiet resignation to his tone.

“I’m too much. Too broken, too clingy. You know that, obviously—and you don’t like it, either. I’m just trapping you here.”

“Don’t say that!” Newt snaps.

He shrugs. “It’s true.”

“Oh really?” The biologist challenges. “Well, then, _Doctor Gottlieb_ , do share with the class.”

His tone is scathing, and Hermann swallows. “You avoid my attempts at affection. Obviously, I’m making you uncomfortable, but you aren’t—or weren’t—willing to voice it,” he rattles off, like he’s reading off of a script. It feels that way a bit.

Newt’s still hidden in the shadow, but Hermann imagines the frown in his face, the furries of his brow as he says, “What do you mean?”

“Would you like a drink?” Hermann asks instead of answering.

“ _No_ ,” Newt snaps, striding forward. The scowl on his face is fierce—one Hermann hasn’t seen in years. “No, you moron—how is it that you had all the evidence and still came to the wrong conclusion?”

“I’d stay my conclusion is quite rational,” Hermann says, voice more mild than he expects. “You refuse physical contact, you’ve stopped _talking_ at every moment, and—”

“Because that’s what you _wanted!_ ” bursts the other.

Hermann blinks slowly. “No. Why would I want that? I want you, Newton—that is not you.”

“The Drift!” the other exclaims desperately. “You were never tactile—it’s the Drift bleed. That’s the only explanation.”

“More likely than the fact that it’s been eight years and I’m a different person than I was then?” Hermann snaps. “That’s ridiculous, Newton,and we both know it.”

The other deflates. “Alright,” he says, miserably, “yeah, you’re—you’re right.”

_I usually am_ , Hermann bites back, instead asks, “Are you going to tell me?”

“Well, I mean, you deserve better,” he says, scuffing his toe on the carpet. “I dunno if you realized, but I tried to kill you like two months ago, so either you’re more insane than I thought or all this is an accident. And—and the physical affection thing—well, you’re obviously only doing it for my benefit. Plus, when have you _not_ been annoyed by my talking?”

He pauses for a moment. “I mean, I get it—I annoy myself. So I figured, hey, why not do _something_ about it and do as you asked and shut up for once?”

Hermann stares at him, and he fidgets under the gaze. “Newton,” Hermann starts. “Newton, I hope that all of that was the product of my drunken mind, because you cannot, surely, be _that_ idiotic, can you?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Newt snaps, “you hate me. Join the—”

“No,” Hermann cuts him off. “No, listen to me, for once. I love you, Newton, for who you are, just the way you are, flaws and all. The man I fell in love with is brash and loud and likes horrid American boxed breakfast cereal. He’s the man who holds me in his arms at night when nightmares wake me and hums Ode to Joy until I fall asleep.”

He glares at the biologist, chin raised, daring him to contradict it, but all that comes out of the other’s mouth is a soft, “...oh.”

Hermann crumbles. “Well,” he says, snatching his cane and rising precariously to his feet, willing back tears and hoping that his face doesn’t broadcast his pain. “I—”

“Hermann,” the other says, “that is the most romantic thing I’ve heard.”

Hermann stops, swaying slightly, and Newt continues. “I—I’m really insecure,” he admits quietly. “And I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions instead of talking to you about it like I should have.” He stops, then says, “I’m sorry Hermann.”

“As am I,” Hermann replies, and Newt gives him a confused look. “The blame doesn’t fall solely on you,” he explains. “At any point, I could have simply asked you directly what your intentions where, but instead, I chose to make—incorrect—assumptions that have lead to the both of us being hurt.”

“I—” Newt swallows. “Maybe we should just agree that we’re equally as bad at this, yeah?” He grins at Hermann weakly, and Hermann musters up a small smile in return.

“Perhaps that is best,” he agrees, “although we should also be more open with each other.”

“Yeah.” Newt nods. “Yeah, dude, you’re totally right. I am sorry, though.”

“And I am as well.” Hermann offers his hand, and Newt stares at it, puzzled. “It’s quite late,” he explains, “I am tipsy, and you’ve been crying, and I believe it would be best if we allow ourselves some time to rest. And,” he adds, “I want you by my side. I get awfully cold my myself.”

Newt’s grin turns to a real one, eyes shining despite the dried tear-tracks on his cheeks. “Why, Hermann!” he gasps, “I thought you were an honourable man!”

“I am,” Hermann replies. “When I said sleep, I meant it literally. I have neither the physical nor emotional energy required for anything more.”

Newt waves him off. “Nah, dude, I was joking. Anyway, I really do wanna just sleep with you—I kinda missed the sound of your heartbeat, not to sound weird.”

“Oh, no, quite normal,” Hermann rolls his eyes, but they’re slipping shut, and Newt comes to his side, lets Hermann lean against him. “Ah, I think I really am ready to sleep,” Hermann murmurs.

“C’mon, let’s get you to bed, Herms,” Newt says softly, an arm around his waist, and they stumble back into the bedroom. Hermann realises, then, with a slight flicker of disappointment, that he hasn’t changed out of his sleep clothes.

Newt notices as well. “Is that my hoodie?” he demands, “dude, you _stole_ it? Not cool.”

“It reminds me of you,” Hermann replies, not as defensive as he would usually be. “I like it.”

Newt expression softens. “That’s fucking adorable.”

“It’s _not_ ,” Hermann says, but without any heat, and Newt grins, helping him infer the covers.

“It is,” he counters, “you, Hermann Gottlieb, are cute—face it. It’s true.”

“Is not,” Hermann shoots back, like they’re both schoolchildren having a petty fight.

“We kind of are,” Newt murmurs, and Hermann realises he’s said it aloud in his half-asleep state.

“Good night,” he says, instead of commenting on the softness of Newt’s face and the way it makes him look younger—makes him look his age. “I love you, darling.”

“I love you to,” Newt mumbles into the crook of his neck.


End file.
